“Its lunch time, its lunch time; you’ve been advised you do function better if you take some time, out,
to replenish your powers of persuasion,
your capacity for calculation.
Distract your eyes from the screen of digits,
and their endless movement and fidgets;
those numbers; oh those numbers!.
Passify your stretched and fidgeted eye in some distraction,
allow your senses to be soothed in something that demands no reaction,
sights that calm your retina from the numbered comma trance,
allow your self a little distance,
from the cut and the thrust,
the stick fold or bust,
of numbers upon numbers,
Why not take some air,
climb up upon the window sill there.
Take 5 out of this busy world,
let those stresses be unfurled,

oh, look down there, there is a parade,
made up of those; who paid?
without spending a penny?

they’re marching in the shade of the skyscrapers,
they’re doing that chain like alligators,
marching by with all the finesse of strips of wet corn beef,
nerves a mess that could find no relief.

Their children’s nerves shredded by the hours and minutes and seconds fighting to hold their Mam’s phone,
while they were left alone,
in a long night,
while she went out to work, to save them from the not so lonely lone shark’s bite.
Followed by the idea tripping over the idea; that there are those who want to make nothing of themselves, make nothing of them selves,
like their overriding ambition is to be left alone on empty shelves,
like atheistic suicidal Santa’s elves.
With gazo and twirling baton out of sink,
those living so close, so close to a brink.
The brinkmanship that sank,
oh! look, there is a giant fish tank, with ‘tropical people’,
Now the float,
on which numbers could so gloat,
balloons, streamers, cards for half a million 6th birthday parties, where in the seat sat in pride of place,
there is just a memory of what could have been a 6 year olds face.
And next an unpopulated float with a single flower, with a single flower whose petal’s,
have kissed worse than nettles,
and blister the on lookers eyes,
cause the flower was watered with what money buys,
following close behind, the leaking seeking pipe banned substance, suffused into the confused young in the wake of their rejection,
and their reception,
of the realisation of the fake complexion, of humanity.
What is that float hostaged in mist?
Is that a fist?

Open your windows and hear money’s song coming from higher still,
above and beyond your window sill.
The sky is not the limit for you,
Look up, look up, now there’s a view,
Remember your first day in the City of immeasurable wealth and how you gasped in aw,
at those numbers, it seemed like all the numbers that money could ever be,
you said to yourself, “I’m not going to let fear inhibit me”,
you stepped on to the floor,
and you dared to grasp and look at what you saw.
Now, take a side long glance down at the procession of ants,
doing a not very well choreographed dance, below,
you don’t belong there, no.
The distance between your ledge and the ants,
those numbers set you apart,
what kept your heart, from believing itself,

That’s it step out on to that wind filled shelf,
cause you are the masters and mistress’ of numbers,
and there is nothing else,
no fear for you to fear, that breeze on the side of your face, that you feel,
you know that its not real,
it’s only there to temper the temperature of whats generating all those numbers, all those number down or,
look up!
Look up, look up, now there’s a view,
The sky is not the limit for you,
Now that is what I call numbers.
All those numbers could be yours, there is no time to pause,
he or she who hesitates bails,
It is numbers that fill your sails, that hails the day,
There is no more words to say,

Numbers can not harm you,
numbers they embalm through their impartiality,
the kindness of neutrality,
soothes all doubt,
thats it step out,
closer to the edge,
of your executive ledge,

But no one here is going to use that word that rhymes with slump,
no, ‘just do it’.

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